


holy ghost take me to your level (show me the one I need the most)

by sansastarks



Series: Wish I Knew You [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Smut, jon broods in any universe, jonsa, season 6, some angst but not like a ton ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-05 01:27:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17315480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansastarks/pseuds/sansastarks
Summary: The Red Woman asks, “Afterwards, after they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?”There’s a pause in the room, as if the whole world is waiting with bated breath, not two outcasts. Jon gulps slowly, his throat sore. He can still hear her. He remembers the softness of her hair. And even if she wasn’t real, he knows, it was highly inappropriate. His own sister. His— Sansa. His body shakes as he meets the woman’s demanding gaze.“Nothing. There was nothing at all,” he whispers.





	holy ghost take me to your level (show me the one I need the most)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Hello! This is the second part of my series, "Wish I Knew You". As a reminder, each part (three in total) are **unrelated**. I apologize for posting this months after I promised an update. Sadly and annoyingly, life, work, and school, got in the way. I know saying sorry does not do much. I have been on the receiving end of waiting forever for authors to upload. Here we are though. I'm so, so thankful to those of you who have been waiting patiently and are still excited about this story. For those of you who are new and have never read my work, I hope you enjoy. (And I hope, if you like this, you consider reading the first part!)
> 
> 2) This is set entirely in the TV universe. It's set from the moment Jon dies at the end of season 5 through the beginning of season 6 episode 3, when he awakes. I remember reading somewhere the significance of Melisandre asking Jon what he had seen in the after-life because it's something that fascinates people across cultures, generations, everything. And when he said he'd seen nothing... well, what are the implications of that? And then my mind went to, well, what if he lied? This was a moment to seriously play around with this idea and douse it with Jonsa. And so, this one-shot emerged. The Sansa for much of this is the Sansa that Jon imagines, not the Sansa we get to see during the beginning of s6. If you see a bit of Ygritte in her, well, I'll let you wonder why.
> 
> 3) As such, this can be a touchy subject. It differs for everyone in what they believe or want to believe. I have not pushed my personal beliefs into it, nor am I saying what happens is the correct or in-correct version. There's a lot of doubt and confusion that surrounds Jon throughout this story, which I hope is representative of the doubts many may have there but also here and now. This story is very much about what Jon experiences and how it fits into the rest of the story. That is the primary focus.
> 
> 4) Anyways, I'm rambling on too much. I will say, writing from Jon's perspective did not come as easily as Sansa's. He's not Dark Jon here (or wherever he is), but he's... something. I hope I have done the character and you justice with this. I'm so sorry again for the wait! I hope to have part 3 uploaded sometime this early spring because most of chapter 1 is written.
> 
> 5) Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the HBO series "Game of Thrones" or the book "A Song of Ice and Fire" by George R.R. Martin. I do not own the lyrics to "Wish I Knew you" by The Revivalists

He feels his eyelids begin to slip closed. There’s a haziness and for the first time the cold of the North begins to bother him. He’s dying, he knows. This is how it ends.

— — 

There’s flashes of red. That’s what he sees first. They come in bursts, blooming at the corners. The red takes shape and Jon know. He knows. It’s someone’s hair. The problem is the hair is not dark enough to be Ygritte’s.

There’s only another woman that he knows, that is kissed by fire. _Sansa_. His half sister that disappeared in a flurry of colorful dresses and packed bags; off to become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. They departed the same day; it was unsaid, but known, that the two would not cross paths again. Queens did not associate with bastards, even if that bastard was taking on a higher position. 

News seemed to travel slowly to the Wall. Perhaps none in the Seven Kingdoms really did care about the men of the Watch. 

But Jon remembers each raven with news regarding his family. His _father_ beheaded by that smug prince. Arya gone, presumably _dead_. Rickon and Bran thought to be dead. Robb and Lady Stark murdered at a wedding. Robb. That news had nearly destroyed him, though he wouldn’t let it show. 

They had been together through it all. He had gained many other brothers, sure, but Robb would always be his true brother.

And there was Sansa. He had not expected to hear news about her for some time. It had rattled him, admittedly, to know that one day when the men around him mentioned “the queen”, they would be talking about his sister. Then, the raven had come revealing that Lady Margaery Tyrell was deemed the true fit for Joffrey and Lady Sansa Stark would be given to the imp of House Lannister. 

Jon had enjoyed Tyrion’s company along the road and at the Wall. He certainly seemed to be the best out of the Lannisters. Imagining him with his hands on Sansa though had made him woozier than a little girl seeing blood. 

Jon edges closer to the color engulfing him. Red. Red. Until, suddenly, he is so uncertain and so sure it’s her.

“Sansa,” he calls, confusion evident by his tone. 

Her eyes flutter as they land on him. She’s _breathtaking_. There’s a bit of him that knows this is not real. She isn’t real. His heart feels twisted inside him and he glances down at himself, brows furrowed in confusion. 

“Jon,” she murmurs.

Horror strikes him. “Is this— are you— what is this?”

Sansa’s head tilts. “What do you think this is?”

“I’ve no idea. I was at the Wall. I’m meant to be at the Wall with my brothers.”

Her plump lips turn down. “And what about your sister?”

“Sansa, I’m so sorry. I—everything that’s happened to you, I’m so sorry. King’s Landing was your dream and now it must be ruined for you.”

“Are you _truly_ sorry for me, Jon Snow? We never got on as children. That has not lapsed your memory. You probably thought me unfit to be queen someday.”

Jon shakes his head even though he knows a part of him wondered. Doubted. “You were always wanting to be a kind queen. I’m sure you would have been.”

Sansa’s lips flatten into a grimace. “The past doesn’t matter now. Not _here_.”

Jon’s voice cracks and his shoulders slouch as he replies, “I’m dead, Sansa. I know it. But I don’t know what this is.”

Sansa’s back is already to him, her thin fingers bending, beckoning him to follow. At his words, she pauses, her expression sly, as she says, “ _You_ know nothing, Jon Snow.”

— — 

_Her hair is wild in the wind. It’s styled down like how the Northern ladies wear it. Her dress is a dark purple. Her soft laughter fills the air._

_“Will you not just play for a bit?” she had asked both himself and Robb._

_Robb was reluctant but it was Sansa so of course, he said yes. Jon had felt his heart stir with happiness at being included. He had heard whispers that soon enough Lady Stark planned on having Sansa spend all her time with the septa._

_When that day came, Jon knew he would no longer be invited to join any sort of fun Sansa might have._

_Her round cheeks grew pink with happiness as she grabbed their hands. “Monsters and maiden!” she cheers, hair bouncing with each stride. Her soft giggles fill the cool air as she smiles at Robb, and at him._

— — 

Jon thinks he’s alone again. He can’t see her, until, she’s there. Her blue eyes pierce his. Her face is unlawfully close, but then she steps back. 

Her lower lip is cut and blood trickles down the side of her chin. She says nothing. 

Jon trembles. “If I could, I’d bring him back so I could shove Longclaw through the skinny shit. For Father. For Robb and Arya. For you.” 

He almost thinks Sansa won’t reply. She will vanish into dust. Her gaze never leaves his. “Do not make promises you can’t keep, Jon.” 

— — 

It happens _slowly_. Her long arms reaching out to him, pulling him into a sloppy stance as she spins around him. Sansa has always danced circles around him. 

She hums along with the music; her smile is not large, but it is there. It’s not appropriate for his hands to rest on her hips, but Jon rests them there anyways. He feels his cheeks grow hot as he does so. 

A coy grin appears on Sansa’s face. She takes a step closer to him. All he can see, all he can process in whatever this is, is her. The atmosphere tingles. 

He feels rooted to the spot. Sansa’s body stays in place, but her face moves closer until she is centimeters away from his face. Jon sucks in a breath as she brushes her nose against his. 

“Jon,” whispers Sansa. “I trust you.” 

He nods, words not coming easily to him. This is not real, his brain tries to remind him. But with every moment Jon has more trouble distinguishing where he was and where he is. Their bodies intertwine, mouths pressed against each other in battle. They tear hurriedly at each other’s clothing. Sansa truly is a she-wolf. 

She backs them up to a bed Jon does not recall seeing. As his back hits the sheet, Jon sighs. He has not felt a featherbed in ages. 

Even when Sansa is climbing onto a bed, bare as her nameday, she holds a certain elegance. Her cheeks are flushed as she straddles him. Her thighs are a milky color, warm under his calloused hands. Her breathing is labored as she begins moving up and down on him. 

Her face gets an odd look and he asks her what is wrong. “Nothing— just like riding a horse,” she answers. Her blush deepens but she doesn’t look away. Jon did not recall Sansa preferring horseback riding over anything. When they were young she had never cared much for the activity, politely declining whenever the offer was made. 

“You’re thinking too much, Jon.” 

Gulping, his eyes travel up her body to meet her gaze. This does not feel quite real and yet, it’s the realest thing to happen to him so far. 

Her small hand grasps his, leading his fingers to curl around her breast. Her nipple is pink and hard. She sighs when he squeezes it gently. 

A part of his mind is screaming at him, telling him how wrong this all is. All he can feel in his brain is confusion. Instead, the words that tumble out of him are, “I’m not a bleedin’ poet.” 

Her head had been turned away, the fire’s light making her hair have a darker glow. Copper red hair enters his mind. He sees just copper for a moment. Then, her eyes are on him and her hair is lighter again. The corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk. 

Jon is familiar with Sansa’s smirk. He had witnessed it many a time when she’d be victorious over Arya in a fight. He fears she’s about to degrade him. She will realize how wrong this all is; who he is, and she will leave. Instead she replies, “I do not need a poet, Jon Snow.” 

He watches in something akin to wonder as she bounces harder on him, hips grinding faster. A slender finger dips down between her legs and she rubs. Jon is equal parts surprised and awed at Sansa’s actions. Her lips form a pout as her body moves with more speed. He sees the moment she comes undone, his name falling from her lips as her nails dig into his shoulders. 

He thrusts up into her a few more time and moans his own release. Sansa’s smile is wider now than it’s ever been. When she finally removes herself from him, she says, “Perhaps we’ve made a babe.” 

His head jerks back. They are too young for children. Besides that, Jon is a man of the Night’s Watch. He can’t— and didn’t wish to— father any babes. However, picturing Sansa with a little girl, with chubby cheeks, red hair like her mother, and his eyes makes his heart thrum in satisfaction. Jon’s always known Sansa wanted to be a mother, expected that as part of her duties. She had always loved playing pretend family with her dolls when they were young. 

“Would you want a babe with me?” he wonders aloud. 

Sansa has her shift back on. Her back is to him and her body twists, face meeting his. Her eyelashes flutter. “I’d have many of your babes. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” 

Jon shakes his head rapidly in denial, but Sansa presses a finger against his lips as if she doesn’t believe him. 

“I do not know what to say, Sansa. That’s not…” 

“Deep down, you’ve always known, Jon. You hid it because we are Starks and that is what honor demands. Perhaps you had even forgotten, with everything that has happened.” 

“I could never forget you.” 

Her face scrunches up and she reaches for him. Her tone is delicate, as she asks, “Will you just hold me, Jon?” 

Jon remembers an instance when Sansa, quite young, fell off her pony. It was a short fall, but still enough to startle a little girl. She had cried as the maester dabbed at her skinned hands. After, Robb pulled her into an embrace. He cradled his little sister’s head against his chest as Jon looked on from afar. Robb had never much thought on what having a sister meant until that moment. Jon is certain of that. That afternoon, they both learned that having a sister means protecting always. Until your last breath. 

Jon’s hands are calloused and cut, but he draws Sansa close to him anyways, the last inhibitions gone. Her head tucked under his chest, she murmurs her thanks. He doesn’t understand any of this. Why he is here. What these visions are. If they are indeed visions. Dreams. Jon does not want to dwell. He squeezes Sansa in comfort. 

“I’ll stay with you, Sansa. I promise you.” 

She pulls back so that she can meet his eyes. Her head shakes. “You cannot. You must not,” she says, then tucking her head back against his chest. “But, just a bit longer.” 

— — 

Air. He’s gasping for it. His chest is heaving. The room is out of focus as he first blinks his eyes. His head spins. 

He sees Ghost and Davos. He feels confusion and the need to empty his stomach. 

His heart speeds up as he glances down, seeing the cuts across his torso. Air. He feels faint. 

— — 

The Red Woman asks, “Afterwards, after they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go? What did you see?” 

There’s a pause in the room, as if the whole world is waiting with bated breath, not two outcasts. Jon gulps slowly, his throat sore. He can still hear _her_. He remembers the softness of her hair. And even if she wasn’t real, he knows, it was highly inappropriate. His own _sister_. His— Sansa. His body shakes as he meets the woman’s demanding gaze. 

“Nothing. There was nothing at all,” he whispers. Davos’ face, already permanently grave, somehow grows more somber. 

Her own body shakes slightly, but she remains resolute that the Lord of Light exists. Stannis Baratheon was not the promised prince, but Jon could be. Her words are like waves crashing against a stone castle. He registers them, but they do not seep in. 

The Red Woman looks as if she wants to further question him, but she leaves at Davos’ request. Davos moves closer and Jon eyes him warily. 

He can no longer understand what is real and what is not. He was murdered, yet here he sits. And everything— everything with Sansa— the realest he’s felt in a while, was false. And wrong. 

“I fear that was not the end of her interrogation,” says Davos. “She’ll be quite fascinated with you from now on.” 

Jon shakes his head. “I shouldn’t be here.” 

Davos nods. “It’s fucking mad. But here you are anyways. And here you’ll stay. And you’ll fight because fighting has to be done for surviving.” He pats Jon’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you for a bit.” 

— — 

“Open the gates!” 

Jon’s body stiffens. His shoulders are hunched, expression grim, and hand on his sword as he makes his way to the balcony. What he sees nearly stops his heart. 

Her hair is matted from melted snow and there’s dirt along her cheek. The bottom of her gown is soaked and dirty from the slush. She’s grown, even taller than Jon perhaps thought she’d be. Her hair is in a braid much like her lady mother used to wear. Even from here, he can see how malnourished she is. 

They stare at each other. He doesn’t know how her eyes seem. He had never been good at understanding her. He feels his feet moving as he descends the stairs towards her. 

When he’s in front of her, he stops hesitantly. They’ve never had that kind of relationship and she’s still a highborn lady, above him in station even still. But then, she’s moving closer, and Jon realizes at least for the moment, it’s all right. 

Their arms wrap around each other and he lifts her, just slightly, off the ground. Her nose buries in his neck. In that moment, he thinks of a scene he once saw from the sidelines. This woman, as a young girl in a pink dress, arms wrapped around Robb in a fierce embrace as they said farewell. 

“Sansa,” he whispers, as she slowly pulls away. She isn’t quite smiling, but it’s something close. Then, she reaches out a leather-gloved hand, and swipes against his jaw. 

“Dirt,” she whispers back hesitantly. “Hello, Jon.” 

He remembers how her voice was. How it would get airy when she spoke about the prince in the weeks leading up to the royal visit. How it would get soothing when she brushed Lady’s fur. How it would get stern and brittle when fighting with Arya. 

She isn’t that Sansa anymore and Jon knows there’s no time to mourn for the childish nature Sansa lost. 

She introduces her lady protector as they head up the stairs. There’s so much they both do not know, yet, so much they do. The Seven Kingdoms are falling apart; the world seeming to tear at the seams, but Sansa is _here_ and with her comes relief. 

Jon offers her the measly soup they consume daily. Its color is disgusting and the smell not much better. Sansa takes it without complaint though, happily lifting it towards her. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Jon says, then immediately regretting his words. “I mean, I’m happy you're alive, Sansa.” 

Her grip tightens on the bowl. “Thank you. Jon I— I was not kind to you when we were children. It was very wrong of me to be so childish and rude and _stupid_. And I suppose part of me did it just to please Mother… but that does not matter now, does it?” 

Her hand shakes as she lifts the spoon to her mouth. Jon’s chest feels suddenly heavy. “I’m so sorry about your mother. Lady Catelyn— I’m so sorry, Sansa. And Robb.” 

Sansa’s mouth twists as they remember, perhaps, their favorite brother. She sets her soup on the table then, and meets his eyes. “I have to say sorry.” Her voice quivers just barely. “He was your father too. And I was there, next to Joffrey and Cersei, on the podium. I thought my prince would spare Father. I am so sorry, Jon.” 

They share silence as they mourn everything that has happened. Neither of them have even shared half of the trials they’ve been through yet. It’s dark when Sansa finally departs his company, lead to her room with Brienne standing guard. 

— — 

It doesn’t take long for Jon to fall asleep; his body is still exhausted from his execution and resurrection. 

In his dreams, Sansa comes to him. The image flashes before him, her mounting him, nails running down his chest. Brushing her hair back so he can see her beautiful teets. See _her._

The guilt flares up again. But Jon knows, these dreams will have to suffice; they will be all he ever gets, ever should get. He’s a bastard through and through. And no one will know what he saw after death. 

He saw what he knows. Nothing. Jon presses a hand to his chest. It feels as though more than just skin has been sliced. 

**Author's Note:**

> Direct quote from "Game of Thrones" season 6 episode 3 "Oathbreaker" written by David Benioff and D.B. Weiss
> 
> follow me on Tumblr: thkingslayer


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